


Shades of Love

by MistressKat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-31
Updated: 2010-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-08 13:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sam is mad, no question about it. He is also the hottest fucking thing Dean has ever laid eyes on.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Clichéd authorial fantasy fulfilment and unashamed smut. This was originally written for and published in the [Connotations](http://connotations.org.uk/) 07 Zine. Beta by [virtualinsomnia](http://virtualinsomnia.livejournal.com/) who is simply amazing, and if it was possible, I would ask her to do a line-edit on my life. I think some of the commas are out of place. Thanks also go to [pushkin666](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666) and [zeitheist](http://zeitheist.livejournal.com/) who both cheered me on at various points of the writing process.

Dean inhales smoke and sweat, the heavy damp taste of sex and alcohol settling onto his tongue and making his stomach twist with want.

The music is like a living thing, the base line throbbing deep in his chest, intent on clawing him open. Dean wades into the crowd, bodies pressing into him from all sides, rough and smooth, male and female.

He can feel the moisture gathering between his shoulder blades, sees it running down the walls of the small underground club, droplets vibrating in time to the beat.

The bar is surprisingly empty, but the sticky surface under his hands does absolutely nothing to ground him. Dean orders a beer, hips pushing against the counter. His skin is hungry and inside he is still screaming, the fight going on even without Sam there to shout back.

Jesus. He slumps down, head hanging low, and takes a long swig of his drink. Weeks and weeks of nothing but endless roads and silent motel rooms, the tension mounting like a storm. He’s been living on the fucking high wire for months now, and the balancing act is getting more painful by the day.

Death and blood and burning flesh bring no release. There’s no reassurance in killing, no permanence in the hunt anymore.

Dean turns around, one elbow on the counter, hip cocked in invitation. It’s unlikely he’ll find any of those things here either, but at least this place offers a distraction, if not a substitution.

And that’s when he sees Sam, leaning on the rail near the entrance. His eyes glint in the blue-white lights of the club, sharp and hard, scanning the throng below. There is an air of barely contained violence in the angles of his body, all the more dangerous for its rarity.

Dean draws a breath through clenched teeth. The thought of all that simmering anger finally exploding in their faces is almost too much to bear, too good, too frightening.

Still, hadn’t he hoped, deep down, that Sam would follow him here? Despite being so goddamn adept at walking away, his brother isn’t keen on letting other people do the same. Relief floods through his body, scalding and intense. Because, yeah, he’d hoped, but he hadn’t been _sure_.

He watches Sam run an unconscious hand through his hair, the long white line of his throat in sudden contrast to the dark tee hugging his torso like a second skin. When his gaze finally lands on Dean, he can feel the jolt all the way to the base of his spine, the intensity of it bleeding from his open lips like a moan, like a plea.

Sam is mad, no question about it.

He is also the hottest fucking thing Dean has ever laid eyes on.

And that right there is the reason why Dean had walked out the motel room less than two hours before, the door banging almost off its hinges behind him. Sam hadn’t taken that too well, but the odds are he would have taken it even worse if Dean had stayed and given into the urge to push his brother onto the ugly paisley-patterned bedspread and fuck him through it.

Which, given two more minutes in the same room with Sam, he would have.

Because Dean can’t control it anymore. He doesn’t want to, can’t remember the reasons why he should half of the time. And that more than anything scares him shitless. Scares him bad enough to take it out on the only person he can. He’s spent enough late nights watching Dr. Phil repeats and drinking whisky straight out of the bottle to recognise reaction formation when it punches him between the eyes.

The smug bastard lied through his teeth though, because damn if admitting the problem does nothing towards fixing it.

Acknowledging the fact that he wants to have sex with his brother only leads to _more_ thoughts about having sex with his brother. Detailed, Technicolor thoughts of Sam’s smooth skin against his, Sam’s mouth on his dick, Sam’s fingers twisting inside him, making him writhe and curse and beg.

He’s been careful not to let things get physical, backing off every time Sam suggests that a good fist-fight or wrestling match might help Dean work through his issues. And that is out of character enough for him to cause a narrow-eyed look of suspicion to appear on Sam’s face, his fingers drumming a slow calculating rhythm on the dashboard, the keyboard, the headboard, every _tap-tap-tap_ plucking Dean’s nerves raw.

Dean knows he won’t get away with it forever. Sam is smart; his patience is running out, and any day now he’s going to call Dean on his bullshit.

Sam turns toward the stairs, eyes never leaving Dean’s. The music picks up the tempo and the crowd lurches forward in time to Dean’s heart. Breath leaves his lungs like a punch as he blindly hurls himself toward the dance floor, a wall of eager flesh blocking him from view. The day of reckoning may be here, but fuck if Dean’s going to stand around waiting for it.

He’s almost to the fire exit when long fingers close around his wrist, tight enough to hurt, and Dean feels himself being jerked to the side. Sam pushes the security bar aside, reaching around a kissing couple, who separate for long enough to let them pass. Cool air floods through the open door, and going through is a bit like swimming upstream. Blunt fingernails dig into his arm, leaving behind little half-moons of pain that swell to the surface like a tide. The girls raise their identically pierced eyebrows knowingly, but Dean is too preoccupied with staying on his feet to care.

Sam slams the metal door closed. They’re in what looks to be a loading bay; a raised platform surrounds the bare cement floor, large double doors opening to what Dean assumes must be the back alley behind the club. There are several ramps and stairs leading down to the level they’re standing on and more doors leading away from the central area. Logically, Dean knows that they are not hiding anything more sinister than the backroom of the bar and possibly the employees’ locker room, but that doesn’t stop him from stooping down quickly, free hand slipping under his boot leg, reassuring himself that his knife is still there.

The room is drafty and shaped like a half-circle. It’s like standing in the middle of a labyrinth, or perhaps the Coliseum, just waiting for the tigers and lions and gladiators to spill out and block all the exits. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam scanning their surroundings, but it’s just routine, it’s not like he’s really worried.

Too bad. Dean could have used a little distraction right about now. Why is it that when you actually _want_ something nasty and supernatural to jump out of the woodwork, it never does?

Sam’s attention snaps back, quick as a whip, and it ceases to matter where they are or what’s going to walk in through the doors, because apparently they’re doing this here and now and damn the consequences.

It’s not until Sam shoves him against the wall that Dean thinks to voice any protest. “What the fu—?”

“_Shut up!_ You don’t get to speak, not now.”

Dean opens his mouth, but doesn’t get far, because Sam actually slaps his hand over it, tight enough that Dean can’t close his lips. It’s an effort to keep his tongue from darting out to taste the damp palm pressing against his face.

Sam doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still talking, voice low and harsh, like he expects the words to hurt. Like he wants them to. “Not after I’ve _begged_ you to tell me what’s wrong for the last _month_ and you’ve done nothing but grunt and shrug and disappear for hours at a time! So _no_.”

Sam leans close, his other fist wrapped in the cloth of Dean’s shirt, the buttonholes stretching. “You. Don’t. Get. To. Speak.”

Dean can feel the heat of Sam’s body, every muscle locked tighter than the secret his own has failed to keep. Sam’s eyes are wild and hard. They haven’t bothered with the overhead lights. The single emergency bulb swinging at the end of its cord throws flickering shadows across his features, and for a fraction of a second he looks like a stranger.

But no, that’s just wishful thinking. It’s the smell and taste of his brother Dean is drowning in. Sam’s knuckles dig deeper into his skin, little round stones cast in anger, and Dean presses back, just a bit, to feel them better. Desire skitters along his spine, dark and quick like spiders.

“Jesus, Dean. Do you have any idea what—” A look of confused frustration drifts across Sam’s eyes and with a sharp hiss of breath he pushes off.

Dean stays where he is, leaning against the wall, eyes following Sam as he paces back and forth. His hands keep opening and closing, like he’s trying to grasp the right words straight out of air.

“_Fuck_. I… You don’t look at me anymore.” Sam lifts his head and there’s sadness and fury warring on his face. Dean has no option but to look now.

“You flinch every time I come within three feet of you. You can barely stand to be in the same room as me, and you sure as hell won’t do it for any longer than strictly necessarily.”

There’s not much Dean can say to that; it’s all true and to deny it would only make Sam more suspicious. There’s still a chance, no matter how slim, that he can think of an explanation to his recent behaviour that Sam will buy.

Sam laughs; a false bitter sound that echoes in the room and lodges itself somewhere behind Dean’s heart. “I’m surprised you haven’t ordered me to ride in the backseat of the car by now, though I’m sure it’s only because you haven’t thought of a good enough excuse yet.”

It’s close enough to the truth to make Dean wince. Sam catches the expression before he manages to smooth it away, and his whole body grows still like a hound scenting prey. Dean’s mouth is suddenly bone dry.

“You don’t look at me, or touch me, but someone who _looks like_ _me_ you—”

Dean swallows. Sam can’t be saying what Dean thinks he is. He can’t. “What?” Dean steps closer, drawn by the pain on his brother’s face, the ready-to-shatter way he’s holding himself. “What, Sam?”

“I followed you, Dean.”

Oh no, no, no, no. Not this; anything but this.

“I followed you last night, when you came to this same shit hole of a club and drank your weight in booze.”

Dean puts a hand out as if to ward himself against what’s coming next, but it’s as inadequate as all the other walls and borders he’s put up over the years. As always, Sam walks right through, right into his personal space, and further still, breath ghosting over Dean’s skin as he tears him open. “I watched you, Dean. I watched you look at him and touch him, take him out and let him fuck you in the back alley like a two dollar whore!”

There is a sound, broken and desperate, swelling inside him, fighting to get out, but Dean can’t let it because he has no idea whether it will be an apology or a confession.

Sam is up in his face, so close that Dean has to lean backwards awkwardly, the muscles protesting. The only thing keeping him standing is the iron grip Sam has on his arms, fingers digging in, hard enough to leave bruises.

“You… you _let him_. Let him _touch you_ and…” Sam is trembling, and Dean is scared now because he can’t remember Sam ever being so angry that he couldn’t complete his sentences. Sam, who lives by, lives _for_, words, reduced wordless by something he has done.

Dean raises his own hands to Sam’s forearms, not even trying to pry them off, just holding on.

“Dean. You… _Dean_.” Sam is shaking him, saying his name like it’s the only thing that’s left, when his gaze shifts down and suddenly everything goes very still.

Their position has forced Dean’s head back, leaving his neck completely exposed. The moment Sam’s eyes flick back to his Dean knows what it is that he’s seen, and the _shame_ and the sick, bitter want that slam into him make his knees buckle.

Sam brings up his right hand, and hooks two fingers under the collar, pulling it down, but the shirt’s cotton and won’t stretch. Sam doesn’t like that, doesn’t like that at all. “I heard you,” he says, fists curling around the fabric as he yanks the top three buttons open, the tearing sound loud in the quiet room. “It wasn’t _his_ name you cried out, was it?” He pushes the cloth out of the way, presses his thumb hard against the livid bruise that colours the curve of Dean’s shoulder, ragged nail catching the skin. “_Was it? _Tell me, Dean!”

Dean hisses air through his teeth and tries to stay upright, while his body wants to do nothing more than collapse to the ground, every muscle suddenly lax and malleable. There are a hundred possible answers – from one word denials, to laughing the whole thing off, to maybe decking his brother because what goddamn business is it of his who Dean screws anyway – and all of them lie scattered around their feet, broken and useless, and Dean is left unarmed.

Every lie and half-truth and avoidance tactic he’s used to keep Sam at a distance, to keep Sam from finding out, to _keep Sam_, crumbles like a paper wall under the weight of Sam’s gaze, dark and knowing. “Whose name did you scream?” he asks.

Dean has nothing left to lose because everything is lost already, and when the truth slips from his lips it tastes like surrender. “Yours,” he whispers, and there’s finality in that one word, endings and beginnings tangled together like creeping vine.

“Yes.” And just like that Sam’s grip gentles, his hands coming up to cup Dean’s face, fingers teasing the short hair behind his ears. “_Mine_,” he agrees, and somehow it means more than the obvious; it means _everything_.

Even though on some level Dean already knows what this is – can _feel_ it in the careful way Sam is holding him steady while he shakes apart against his brother’s chest – the first touch of Sam’s mouth against his is still a shock.

His frantic thoughts stutter to a halt, slipping from his mind like grains of sand, and Dean doesn’t dare move because he never once thought this was a possibility, and he can’t quite make himself believe it is now.__

But Sam is still kissing him, slow and shallow and unbearably sweet, and it doesn’t make sense because wasn’t he angry with Dean not thirty seconds ago? “Mine,” he repeats, and it’s not a question, but Dean answers it anyway, though not in words.

He opens his lips, lets Sam all the way in, moaning helplessly into the hot slick pressure of his brother’s mouth. He’s out of options, because it’s not just him, it’s Sam, too, and that doesn’t make this right, but it makes it inevitable.

The moment Dean starts responding to the kiss, it changes, turning deep and sharp, teetering on the edge of something fatal. Sam growls, all teeth and ownership as he rubs his tongue against Dean’s, a wet slide of flesh that pulls a low whine from Dean’s throat.

And then Sam’s hands are pushing him down, his knees folding under him like a house of cards, boots scratching on the cold cement. Sam looks wild and out of control, eyes dark and not quite sane, and it’s all for Dean; this fierce, dangerous love is all for him.

Dean presses his face against Sam’s stomach, pushing his t-shirt up and away to get to the skin. He licks a long line from hipbone to hipbone, along the waistband of Sam’s jeans, tongue dipping under them in the middle.

“Jesus, Dean. I gotta.” Sam keeps rubbing his groin against him, rough denim scraping along his cheek, and Dean moans, his mouth flooding with saliva, because yes._ God yes_.__

His hands shake too much but it’s okay, because Sam is already tugging open his own belt, buttons popping obscenely. And then his cock is there, hot and hard and smearing pre-come against Dean’s lips, and Dean just opens up, takes him in, tongue flat and relaxed to accommodate the intrusion. He’s good at this, he knows, but for Sam he wants to be the best.

The taste of his brother crashes through him like surf, salt and sin and belonging, and Dean swallows and swallows until it fills his belly, runs along every vein and nerve and straining tendon. He spreads his legs wide for balance, hard-on pressing painfully against the zipper, trapped and aching inside his jeans. His hands curl around Sam’s hips, stroke down and around, thighs and ass and the soft, soft crease in between that Dean wants to bite and suck and leave his mark on.

Sam’s holding him still, fingers cradling the back of his skull, a litany of wordless praise falling from his lips. Dean can hear himself mewling, throat tight around his brother’s cock as Sam fucks his mouth in short brutal strokes.

It’s too much, too good, and Dean is going to come without even touching himself, just from the feel of Sam on his tongue.

But then Sam pulls out, thumb and forefinger circling the base of his cock, one hand keeping Dean from following. The muscles of his stomach jump and Dean licks his lips, looks up to see Sam doing the same. He’s scrambling to his feet, already nodding, by the time Sam finds his voice.

“Dean, Dean, I want to… I…” Sam’s not _asking_ here, mouth hot on Dean’s skin, hands tearing at his shirt buttons, belt, zipper, mindless of their surroundings or the fact that someone could walk in on them at anytime.

Dean lets Sam back him against the empty drink crates, the planks rough against bare skin, his jeans and underwear at mid-thigh. “Yeah, okay. Yeah.” If Sam wanted him to, Dean knows he would _beg_, go down on his belly and _crawl_ for this, for Sam, and maybe another time he will – the thought makes him flush and shiver – but right now he’s being flipped around, a strong hand between his shoulder blades pushing him down.

The wood under his chest is unvarnished and dirty, the splinters grazing a cheekbone where his head is pressed tight enough to make breathing difficult. He can feel the sweat pooling at the small of his back, Sam’s thumbs slicking it along the tailbone, fingers spread like a fan across his ass.

There’s a brief rustle of clothes and then a crackle of foil as Sam goes through Dean’s pockets, all the while biting sharp little kisses along his spine. “Always prepared, huh, Dean?” The words are light, but the tone is anything but, like Sam isn’t sure whether to be pleased or mad about the condom and packet of lube he fishes out.

Dean just moans and arches his back in invitation, because yeah, he came to this club for a reason, but it was nothing, _meant_ nothing, only a poor diversion that never worked anyway. “Sam,” he pants, open-mouthed and impatient, and Sam takes the hint, pushes two slippery fingers in, and that’s the end of that conversation.

Sam clearly knows what he’s doing, and Dean has maybe three seconds to realise that the idea of Sam touching anyone else like this makes him want to put a fist through the nearest wall, before even that thought melts away. It’s a slow steady burn, stretching him open, and Dean fucks himself back on Sam’s hand, shaking and feverish.

“Jesus God, I can’t…” Sam pulls his fingers out, crooking them just right at the last minute so that by the time he pushes in with his cock Dean is groaning non-stop, choking on the dusty air of the room and the enormity of what they’re doing. _This is my brother; this is Sam, _he thinks, but instead of something bad and twisted, it feels nothing but right; like everything broken and warped inside him has been smoothed out and made whole.

Sam fucks into him hard, and the pleasure of it is like a blade, newly-forged and red as it slides through him, until he’s drowning in the colour, the red of the starburst at the back of his eyelids, of the handprints on his skin, of the blood that wells up from where he bites through his lip.

Dean’s chewing at his own fist because his mouth feels empty, sliding helplessly across the spit-slick flesh before Sam wrenches his head to side and shoves two of his own fingers in. His other hand wraps around him, perfect and tight and just this side of pain, and Dean _keens_, long shreds of sound that unravel into the heated space between their bodies. The world goes blurry around the edges, and he comes like that, speared between Sam’s fingers and cock, full to the brim and desperately pushing for more.

Sam slams in all the way, no grace or rhythm, just pure blind need, and follows him over. He sinks teeth into Dean’s shoulder, sucking a new bruise over the old one, claiming even that final bit as _his_, every shudder and gasp punctuated by Dean’s name.

The world swims back into focus slowly, every heartbeat stretching into eons while Dean leans on his elbows, head hanging low and sweat cooling on his skin. Behind him, Sam is making small contented noises, lips moving languidly against his ear.

Eventually they stand up, ineffectually trying to straighten their clothes. Sam keeps looking at him out of the corner of his eye like he expects Dean to bolt at any second. But Dean’s not freaking out, not now, because he can _do_ this, has done it his whole life. To be whatever Sam wants and needs, to be _Sam’s_. Walking away to give Sam his chance at normality, standing between him and every evil thing in the world with nothing but a loaded shotgun and bone-deep conviction, on his hands and knees begging to be fucked. It’s all the same; it’s all _love_.

“Dean…” Sam lifts a hesitant hand toward him, like he’s unsure of his welcome, but Dean just leans into the touch, easy and relaxed.

“Sammy,” he says, and that one word is enough to make the uncertainty melt off Sam’s face like it was never there. It’s the first time Dean’s called him that tonight, the first time in a long time, and maybe after what they’ve just done it should feel like a sacrilege, but instead it makes Sam smile and tip Dean’s head back for a kiss.

He doubts Sam is going to stay non-verbal for long, and maybe they actually do have things that need to be said out loud, but for now this – the lazy slip-slide of tongues, Sam’s fingers tracing the mark on his skin, over and over again – is enough.


End file.
